


Sam's Pawn & Loan

by blythechild



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Angst, Child Neglect, Escape, Family Don't End in Blood, Gen, Hunters & Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 06:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6069286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blythechild/pseuds/blythechild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam assumes that he'll live and die in this small town until the day a shiny muscle car rolls in...</p><p> </p><p>This is a work of fanfiction and as such I do not claim ownership over the characters herein. It was created as a personal amusement. This story is suitable for readers aged 14 and up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam's Pawn & Loan

**Author's Note:**

> This was a failed attempt to complete an entry for 2016's picfor1000 challenge on Livejournal. Sadly, I was 200 words over the 1000 word limit and found that I just couldn't cut anymore. Stuff like that happens. The original picture prompt [is here](https://www.flickr.com/photos/detroitderek/2661032330).
> 
> In this story, Sam and Dean are not brothers. It is obviously an AU. There are references to alcoholism and child neglect but there's nothing graphic.

When the insurance paid out he could either keep the house or the business but not both. No money for college either - Dad drank that away. Without the business he’d lose the house eventually, so he decided to keep the shop, fulfilling the final ‘fuck you’ from his old man that kept him trapped in Midwest nowhere for good.

He grew up strong and capable despite his Dad’s neglect. And he was smart enough to realize that if he didn’t get out young, he’d never get out at all. He fed off a dying town’s desperation - the meth heads and bankrupt farmers and families being crushed by their reverse mortgages were his people - but he tried to give them a fair deal. It wasn’t hard to see that when everyone was used up he’d be in the same boat, so he became a compassionate scavenger. 

All he wanted was to be useful, whether it was scraping Dad off a barstool, or taking on the guy who left bruises on a local girl. That’s what his college dream had been about: law school, and fighting for those who couldn’t. But Dad said helping people was for suckers - they’d sell each other out in a heartbeat and that’s why pawning was the only game worth playing. That’s how he ended up spending his days giving thirty cents on the dollar and thinking about the bottle too much.

When the drifter came in, he knew there was something off about him. His folksy patter, his easy smile, and his improbable smattering of high-end goods all told Sam that he ought to pull his Desert Eagle and suggest he move on. But he just stared Green Eyes down and quoted a price that made the man’s eyebrows rise.

“Is there a good place to eat in this town?” Green Eyes asked as Sam recorded the info from the guy’s fake i.d.

“Lilly’s up on Elm Street. Best pie in three counties.” Sam waved the pawn ticket. “I know you’re not coming back for this stuff, but it’s policy, Mister umm… Sambora.”

Green Eyes’ smile dimmed but he took the ticket and left without a fuss. Sam should’ve called the sheriff but just watched the drifter drive away instead, envying his escape.

He never expected to see the guy again. So when he returned three months later, beaten up and with a semi-automatic hidden under his jacket, Sam flexed his hands over the Louisville Slugger under the counter.

“It’s illegal for me to receive stolen goods in trade,” he said when Green Eyes offered up his wares.

The drifter leaked sadness like a drunk leaks need in the morning. “The owners can’t use this stuff anymore.”

“And that’s not suspicious at all,” Sam mumbled, writing up the ticket. When Green Eyes signed it this time he added a new number - an improvement over the previous, six-digit one he’d left before.

“So, is there a ‘Sam’ around here?” the drifter asked.

“I’m Sam.”

“No offense, but that sign outside’s gotta be at least sixty years old…”

“Sam was my grandfather. My Dad’s only paternal instinct was to name me after him. Probably just to keep the business in the family.”

“And the family in the business?” Green Eyes said knowingly.

“Something like that,” Sam gritted out, handing over the ticket.

On the opposite side of the shop a kid in a hoodie had been lingering, using Green Eyes as a distraction. As they spoke, Hoodie made a beeline for the door. Sam sighed, hating this part.

“Excuse me,” he said as he reached under the counter and whipped a hard rubber ball at the kid’s head.

Hoodie yowled ‘hey, man!’ as Sam vaulted over the counter. He loomed over the punk, out-measuring him in every way, and didn’t think once about pulling the gun from his jeans.

“Dump out everything you lifted on the floor. If I see you in here again, I’ll put a bullet in someplace soft. Afterwards, I’ll call the sheriff if it occurs to me.”

Hoodie did as he was told; junkies were like that when survival was at stake. Sam collected his things, and turned to find Green Eyes watching him with interest. Sam just shrugged.

“Dunno why he tried. I’m the only guy who buys this stuff.”

Green Eyes smirked. “I’m Dean, by the way.”

Sam felt Dean’s eyes follow him, focusing on the gun at the small of his back. Sam paused. “So, not Richard Sambora then?”

“It’s a nickname.” Dean shook Sam’s hand. “Take care, Sam, though you probably don’t have too many worries on that score.”

Sam listened to the roar of Dean’s engine as he sped up Main Street and thought about the warmth of his grip.

When a different stranger offered him something he knew he shouldn’t accept, Sam didn’t hesitate. He found the ticket, called the number, and simply said ‘I have something for you’. Two days later Dean walked through the door covered in road dust and curiosity, and Sam just led him back to the storeroom. He unwrapped the book carefully.

“Do you know what this is?” Dean’s expression hardened.

“No, but I know what you are, and I know this is dangerous.”

Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Value is my business, Dean, and you’re not the first hunter I’ve met.”

“That’s a pretty good read, Sam,” Dean said cautiously. “How much do you want for it?”

“Nothing. Just take it - do what you have to do.”

“People will come looking for this. Bad people.”

“I know.”

“They’ll go to work on you about who you gave it to.”

“Doesn’t matter. What am I gonna tell them anyway? That I gave it to a dude who lives in his car and gave me an alias?”

“Sam… why would you risk that? I’m no one to you.”

“Just seems like the right thing. Maybe to help you help others, I dunno. It’s not like I have helluva lot to fight for.”

Dean looked as sad as when he’d pawned the belongings of dead people. Then something changed. “You could come with me.”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s dangerous and I _do_ live in my car, but in my defense, it’s a great car.” Dean grinned. “You’re smart, strong, and you can handle yourself. I can teach you the rest… but it’s a tough life, Sam. There’s no sugar coating it.”

“You think living and dying _here_ is any easier? Just tell me… do you help people?”

“Yeah. Sometimes I do.” 

Dean’s face told Sam all he needed to know about the hard truth of his answer. He walked away, retrieving a duffel bag from behind the counter. Dean followed, watching as Sam cleared out the register and checked his gun.

“Ready?”

“Is that all you’re taking?”

“None of this stuff is mine.” 

Sam turned out the lights and headed for the door. Dean just smirked, exiting before Sam locked up and slid the keys back through the mail slot. Roaring out of town in Dean’s shiny car, Sam wondered if the next owner would change the store’s name or if a pawnbroker’s life simply wasn’t worth that much effort.


End file.
